


Invictus

by MonstrousRegiment



Category: The Avengers (2012), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-11
Updated: 2012-03-11
Packaged: 2017-11-01 19:59:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonstrousRegiment/pseuds/MonstrousRegiment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on this prompt: http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/7736.html?thread=14405432#t14405432</p>
<p>Charles, in the aftermath of an assault, and the psychological repercussions of lack of solace and support in those who are closest to him. </p>
<p>Warnings: Trauma; depression. Victim-blaming, indifference.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Poem by William Ernest Henley:
> 
>  
> 
> _Out of the night that covers me  
>  black as the pit from pole to pole  
> I thank whatever gods may be  
> for my unconquerable soul_

It was still snowing outside. 

Charles could see the snowflakes falling, white dots against the landscape. It had been snowing for a while, and the forest outside was covered in white; the thick layer of it covering the ground muffled the sounds, making them indistinct. 

But the silence was great, and Charles could hear him walking away; it was the only sound, besides his own hitching breaths. 

He could see him, too, lopsided as if the world had tilted. He was still on the ground. The snow beneath him bit into his bare skin, but it didn’t hurt so very terribly anymore. He blinked and the blurriness of the world receded, slightly. The wet tracks on his face felt queerly cold and numb. 

He should get up. He needed to get up. The snow was cold he knew, even though he could scarcely feel it. His breath was white puffs of steam, dissipating in the air above him. 

Beyond them, the sky was grey and overcast. Charles blinked, slowly, and again the blurriness dispersed. He realized he was crying. He swallowed. His throat ached; it felt raw and inflamed, and breathing was a rasping, painful affair. 

He should get up. 

His arms and legs were weak. He couldn’t seem to stop crying. Whenever he blinked more tears came out. He became aware of the snowflakes falling on him, and melting on his sweater and shirt, racked up to his chest. Where his skin was exposed the snow was cold and wet. He shivered. 

He swallowed again, and shivered. 

He needed to get up, he thought, and realized he’d thought that before. He shifted, trying to get up on his elbows, but his shoulders were curiously shaky and hurt. It didn’t feel like his muscles could hold his weight. Still he insisted, and after a few attempts managed to sit up. The snow crunched under his shifting weight.

He was naked, waist down. 

His slacks were lying rumpled within arm’s reach, but he didn’t have the strength to grab them yet. He sat and shivered, for a while, and let the snow fall on him. 

There was a blood on the snow between his legs. Not much. But it was stark red against the crisp white, and had spider-webbed out, so the dots had finally connected and run together: a constellation of red. 

It hurt. But it wasn’t that bad. More puzzling was the white streaks of viscous liquid still clinging, congealing, to his stomach. Dully, Charles picked up a handful of snow and rubbed it against his skin, cleaning away the liquid. His fingers and stomach were numb; that didn’t hurt. He didn’t understand quite what it was, and then he did. 

He didn’t sob. He blinked, and watched as one of his tears fell on his white thigh and slid down, down the expanse of delicate skin in his inner leg, to the underside of his thigh were it ran down to his buttock and merged with the snow he was sitting on. 

It hurt, and then it didn’t, and then it hurt again. He realized distantly that it throbbed together with the slow beating of his heart. It hurt, it didn’t, it hurt, it didn’t. 

He looked down; realized he was still holding a fistful of crushed snow: consciously ordered his fingers to slowly unclench, until he could see his palm, reddened by the cold, glistening with wet. He swallowed, blinked. Felt the tears roll down his cheeks, felt their salt upon his lips. 

Slowly turning his head, he saw the ruined heap of his trousers and with a shaking arm reached out, vaguely surprised when he found his fingers closing over the wet wool. He dragged them over. 

It hurt when he got up. Snow and water ran cold down his legs; something warm ran down between them. He didn’t look. He fell to his knees once, out of balance, while putting his trousers on, but he got up and insisted and they came up. 

It hurt to walk, but it didn’t hurt terribly bad. A twinge. Annoying. Soreness. His trousers were soaked through; the wet wool rasped against the soft skin of his thighs. He started walking and realized late that he hadn’t looked for his underwear. Became aware that he couldn’t turn back and look because if he did, there would be no getting up. He was on his feet now. 

He needed to get home. 

He dragged down his shirt and sweater as he walked, vaguely aware of the cold of the snow and the season. 

He’d always loved winter. 

His arms and shoulders and back were sore. There was a strange pull in his neck, to the side and curving back, the muscles quickly stiffening. He became aware that the fingers in his right hand were swollen. He blinked at them as he walked and almost tripped on a branch, narrowly avoided falling by catching onto a tree. His shoulder hurt when he braced his weight against it, but it wasn’t terribly bad. 

It hurt to walk, but he could manage. 

He could get home. 

It was still snowing. The streets were deserted, silent and queerly bleached in the whiteness of winter. It wasn’t yet suppertime—he didn’t think it was, at least. He wasn’t sure how much time had gone by. He wasn’t hungry; he always got hungry right before suppertime, so surely…

He got to his apartment and got his keys from the inner pocket of his coat. It was difficult to extricate them; he found his hands were trembling. He swallowed; tried again. This time he found them, caught them, and dragged them out. He opened the door to his building, waited for the elevator. 

There was a mirror in the door of the elevator. Charles stared at himself, unblinking and confused, as the elevator climbed up to the fourteenth floor. He didn’t look any different. Pale skin, red lips, a somewhat unattractive nose, great blue eyes. His hair was wet and hung in strings on his forehead and temples, so dark it was nearly black. But he didn’t look any different. There was something in his eyes. 

He turned around as the doors chimed and slid open. 

No, there was nothing in his eyes. Nothing at all. 

He got to his apartment. The lights were out. Raven wasn’t home yet. She was probably in drama class. He wanted her to be home, and he didn’t. He wanted to be alone, and he knew he needed help. But he wanted to be alone. He locked the door, didn’t turn on the lights. He made his way to his room and closed the door. Yes; he wanted to be alone. 

It still hurt, a little. He took off his coat, his sweater and shirt and trousers, and he put dry sweatpants and a t-shirt. He considered a shower. He was cold. But it hurt, to stand up, to walk, to move. To be awake. And he was so tired. 

Yes. He was tired. He would sleep. The shower could wait until morning. It didn’t hurt terribly badly. And he was so tired. He wasn’t hungry, either. Just cold, and tired. He stretched out on his side on the bed, pulled the covers over himself. Closed his eyes. 

He was so tired. But sleep wouldn’t come. He was lying still on the bed under the covers but he could feel it, like the sensation on land of a rocking of a sailboat beneath the soles of his feet, after he had abandoned the deck. 

He could feel the motion, between his legs, against his chest, hear the panting in his ear, the low groans, the moaning. The pain. 

It wasn’t there now but he could feel it. And sleep would not come. He was cold, even under the many blankets and covers; so cold he felt he’d never again be warm. He wanted to sleep, but he couldn’t fall asleep. 

He could feel the crunch of snow beneath his back, against the backs of his wrist as he was held down. The snow had rasped the skin at the small of his back and it stung, reddened and swollen. The fingers of his right hand ached, inflamed. He didn’t know how he’d hurt them. 

He turned his face and looked at the window. The half-light of dawn was creeping through the window. It was dawn, and he had not slept at all. 

Aching and stiff, he sat up. His body was sore and hurt and felt like it was alien and removed from him; a different entity altogether. His hair was stiff and tangled; abruptly he felt disgusted with himself, filthy. He dragged himself from the bed and to the bathroom, and stayed under the scalding hot water using the washcloth on his skin over and over until it was raw and red, and stung all over. Only then did he reach for the towel, and dried himself and short, jerky motions. 

He caught sight of himself in the mirror. 

He looked the same. 

Had it happened? Had he imagined it? Had it been as he had thought—violent and painful? Or had it been altogether a different thing? Was he mistaken to think he—to think he had… had been—

“Raped,” he said aloud, and his own voice startled him, raspy and croaking. His eyes grew wet and overrun and tears rolled down his cheeks to the angle of his jaw. 

“Raped,” he repeated to the man in his mirror, that pale-faced man with too-large eyes and tangled brown hair. That wasn’t him, that man; that wasn’t the Charles Xavier he knew. The Charles Xavier he knew wouldn’t—wouldn’t—

He turned around and fell to his knees, scrambling to shove up with toilet lid. There was nothing in his stomach but bile; nothing to bring up through painful dry heaves and spasms. It hurt—suddenly everything hurt, hurt like nothing before. He keened, a wretched sound that echoed off the walls of his bathroom, and listed helpless to the side, landing in a heap in the cold tiled floor. 

It hurt. 

_I need help_ , he thought, grabbing at the edge of the tub with weak fingers to pull himself up again to his knees, to his feet, shaky and unsure. He grabbed clean clothes and put them on, careless of what they were, and moved slowly and cautiously out of his bedroom to the living room. The smell of bacon and eggs assaulted him. His stomach heaved, roiling, but there was nothing in it, so he retched dryly and kept moving. 

Raven and Erik were at the kitchen table. Erik looked freshly shaved and immaculately put-together, as always. His slacks and shirt were so perfectly pressed they had corners. 

He looked up when Charles showed up, and grinned. 

“Slept rough, Xavier?” he asked. “A little bird told me you two had a bit of a wild time outdoors.” 

Charles collapsed into a chair, silent. 

Raven turned from the stove, laughing. “Charles, are you sleeping your way through the University staff, or what?”

Charles looked down at his hands. The fingers of his right hand were swollen and stiff. 

“Any time now you ought to start charging,” Erik teased, pushing a cup of tea in his direction. 

Charles opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He closed it again, with a snap. Swallowed bile. He felt something hard against his forehead and realized he’d bent his head to the table, shaking. With an effort he straightened again, stared at his hands open like dead spiders upon his lap. 

“I didn’t,” he rasped, voice a thread. “I didn’t—want to.”

“Charles, it’s fine,” Raven said dismissively, putting a plate in front of him. He recoiled from it until his back hit the back of the chair. “We know you’re a slut. We still love you.”

“I’m not,” he said weakly. 

Erik laughed, good-humored. “You are, a little.”

“I didn’t want to,” Charles insisted, dismayed. “I told—I told him—I asked him to—to stop—“

But Erik and Raven weren’t listening. “—and anyway you’ve got good enough taste. Sebastian’s pretty good-looking for his age. We know you’ve got a thing for older guys anyway.” 

“ _Please_ ,” Charles whispered, and that did stop them, made them look. “Please, I—I’m hurt. I asked him to stop. I didn’t want it.” 

“You didn’t want it?” Raven arched a brow. “Then what were you doing out in the middle of the woods with him? Charles, you said it yourself—you wanted to get him alone somewhere and have your way with him.” 

“But I asked him to stop,” Charles’ voice broke. “I’m hurt.”

“I’m sure it always hurts a little,” Erik smiled. “You’ll be fine. You’ve had it rough before, Casanova.” 

“No,” Charles insisted, but his voice gave out.

“Just get in the tub and have a lazy day,” Raven patted his hair gently. “You’ll be fine.”

“He forced me,” Charles ground out, finally, clenching his hands. Raven and Erik stilled, staring at him. “He—he—I was—“ but he couldn’t say it out loud. 

“Are you saying,” Erik said slowly, frowning. “That Sebastian _raped_ you?”

Charles’ throat and mouth were dry; he could not speak. 

Erik gave a short, disbelieving laugh. “Charles, don’t be ridiculous. You’ve been flirting and chasing Sebastian for weeks. I’m sorry it went a bit different than you hoped for, but I’m sure next time will be better.” 

Raven was a little more uncertain. “Charles, Sebastian’s a really nice guy. Maybe he was a bit overly rough, but then you should just tell him to be gentler next time, okay? Don’t get hurt, either.” 

“Next time,” Charles said dully. 

“Or don’t go out with him again,” Erik shrugged. “You’ve got plenty of people to go back to if you need to scratch an itch. No need to put up with unpleasantness.” 

“I was… you’re not listening,” Charles whispered. 

“I heard you,” Erik said firmly. “You misinterpreted. Talk it out with him.” 

“But I’m… _hurt_ ,” Charles felt tears coming back. He swallowed convulsively. 

“Charles, you’re a man and a grownup,” Erik frowned, beginning to sound annoyed. “I understand you’re upset, but don’t you think it’s disrespectful and selfish if you to say that—Jesus, Charles, this is a serious thing. People really get hurt. Why would you say that? If you didn’t like it, just don’t go back to him.” 

Charles stared at him, speechless and confused. Raven sighed and went back to cooking, shaking her head as if Charles was being stubborn and obtuse. Arching his brows, shaking his head slightly, Erik picked up the newspaper and started reading it, the subject discarded as so many of Charles’ amusing little quirks. 

Charles looked down at his hands. The swollen fingers of his right hand hurt. His head, shoulders, neck and arms ached. 

“I asked him to stop,” he whispered quietly to his hands. 

Erik sighed without looking up, “Charles, let it go. It’s not funny.” 

Quietly, Charles staggered to his feet and left the kitchen.


	2. Chapter 2

Life carried on like a mosaic of impressions, none too deep, none too relevant. 

He healed, eventually. His muscles stopped aching, he stopped bleeding when he went to the bathroom. His fingers went back to their normal size and started once again moving perfectly fine. 

It was still winter, and it snowed almost continually. Charles wore thick clothes and several layers, to keep warm, but he became aware that he was always cold, anyway. 

In the morning he spent nearly an hour in the shower and came out still feeling filthy. He washed his hands, but they always seemed dirty. He cut off his hair, thinking that would help, but his scalp was cold and the hat he used didn’t help. He had tea, but swallowing solid food became a problem. He had to force himself to eat a little every day, and even then sometimes the food came back up at night and he could only keep down water. 

He was scared but confused as to what scared him. Because it had happened in the light of day it didn’t feel like he ought to be afraid of night, but if he found himself in the street at nightfall panic would grip his insides and twist them. Empty, silent streets terrified him; as did corners, and avenues full of people, and tall soft-spoken men. 

There were no safe places. 

He prepared his lessons every day but by noon had to make an effort to revise them, and even then could only with difficultly make himself remember them enough to lecture. The subjects escaped his mind like soft slick tendrils, leaving behind nothing but a vague sensation. He confused himself by forgetting the order of the concepts, and being forced to retrace his steps confused his students as well.

Some days he woke up and in the soft half-light of winter everything would seem a cruel joke, a stupid delusion, a bad dream. He would get up and feel fine and think perhaps Erik had the right of it, and he’d been wrong, misunderstood, misinterpreted. He could hardly believe it. 

But that was when he could sleep at all. 

He would lie in bed for hours, exhausted and drained, but sleep would not come. If it came, it was restless, plagued with nightmares. He felt it, like a phantom limb, a ghost that terrified him and made his muscles stiff to the point where it was painful: the swift rocking motion between his legs, the scratch of snow on the bare skin of his back. He would wake up choking, a moan and a groan echoing in his ears. He could only rarely snatch more than an hour of sleep at a time. 

It was only days after the fact that he realized his telepathy wasn’t working. He waited for it to return, thinking that it would help him, but when it did it was only dim and confusing, out of control. Sometimes the volume of it overwhelm him and other times its absence gave him migraines that would confine him to his bed, shivery and sweaty, the world a blur of unfocused pain. 

Eventually he started taking suppressants for it, hoping it would help stave off the headaches, and it did; but not without unpleasant collateral damage. The lack of his telepathy only added to his feeling of disconnection, like he was adrift in a sea of half-shadows, undefined and shapeless. To see a face and not feel the mind behind it was disorienting and dizzying. 

At some point, an incalculable amount of time after that afternoon, he sat down to his computer and researched PTSD. Numb and helpless, he tried to talk to Raven again, tried to impress on her the desperation of his situation. 

“Charles, stop being like this! I’m sorry you didn’t like it with Sebastian, but there’s no reason to try to screw up his life!” 

Devastated, Charles had withdrawn from her and Erik completely, limiting himself to his bedroom. Insomnia became the norm, but even as he was unable to sleep he could not bring himself to work, the words of his text blurring beneath his eyes, his mind wandering aimlessly. The suppressant drugs made his head feel like it was filled with cotton. 

At some point, he started feeling like everything was pointless, meaningless. For a while he was able to sleep, dulled to the pain and the fear of the night terrors, and began to eat again, only for the nightmares to return, fiercer than ever, on the eve of the first month since he’d been assaulted. That night sleep eluded him. He tried to have a cup of tea with shaking fingers, but threw up it up almost immediately. 

Dragging himself up from the floor to the sink to wash his face, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. His hair had begun to grow a little, dark stubble on his pale scalp. Raven had told him that he looked awful; she was not far from the truth, but it wasn’t only the hair. He’d lost a lot of weight, he realized; he looked sickly and pale, thin to the point where he could easily spot his breastbones. His eyes were deep-set on a sharp-angled face, their blue dulled to almost grey. 

He stared at himself for a long time, and only after an indeterminate amount of it had passed he looked down at his hand and realized, to his surprise, that he was holding a razor-blade in his bloodless fingers, clenched tight. Erik had given it to him a few years back as a present, a token of appreciation for Charles’ tireless work on helping him hone his metallokinetic abilities. At the time Charles had treasured it, a gift from someone he greatly cared for—but he searched for that affection now and could find nothing but cold and, if he looked a little deeper—a stinging, painful betrayal. 

He didn’t remember picking up the razor, dangerous and sharp enough to slice through—slice through—

Oh. 

Consciously, slowly, he put the razor down, and looked at himself in the mirror. He thought of going to Raven, and thought of going to Erik, and knew it wouldn’t make any difference. Not long ago Raven had told him he looked a bit down, and maybe he just needed to go back to doing his Casanova rounds, to pick himself up a bit. 

Charles left the bathroom, picked up his thick coat, his wallet and satchel, put on his hat. Raven was in the living room, reading a fashion magazine. She didn’t look up or ask where he was going as he passed, and he didn’t tell her. 

He didn’t come back. 

++++

It took Raven over a week to realize she hadn’t seen her brother, and start to worry. She tried his cell-phone, only to hear it ring in his bedroom, where she found it on top if his bed-side table. She called Erik, who said he hadn’t heard anything from him either. She tried their other friends; Sean, Alex and Hank revealed they hadn’t had a word with him in weeks. 

Concerned, she went to the University. There she found her brother hadn’t shown up for classes since the previous week, and they hadn’t been able to contact him either, though they had tried, repeatedly.

Now beginning to grow frantic, Raven started calling anyone she could think of, even going as far as dragging Erik out of his engineering firm to enlist his help. His resourcefulness proved valuable when he contacted his friend Moira who worked for the FBI, and requested she return a favor. Somewhat at her own risk, Moira dug a bit and found Charles had bought a plane ticket from their home city of Boston to New York.

There the trail went cold. 

Desperate, Raven and Erik went to the police and filed a Missing Person report. According to procedure, the police came to their flat and searched Charles’ bedroom. The conclusion they reached was that Charles had simply—left. They looked into the ticket and found nothing irregular about it. Charles’ accounts had otherwise not been touched, except for the money he had withdrawn from an ATM in the airport. But it was a small sum, only two hundred dollars, and nothing that would raise a flag, as it was in accordance to his usual behavior.

The police concluded Charles had very simply decided to leave without letting his sister and friends know. When Raven insisted this was out of character, the detective pointed out that Charles was a twenty-five year old, independent, professional man, and could very well do as he pleased without previously letting his _little sister_ know. 

 

“Unless you can think of anything out of the ordinary he might have mentioned that would make you suspicious,” the detective shrugged. 

Erik hesitated, “He did mention—he said, a few weeks back, that he… well, he insisted he’d been assaulted.”

The detective straightened at this information, and made further inquiries. When Raven and Erik’s reactions to this revelation were confessed, the man glared, brusque and hostile. 

“I still think he left,” he said low and surly. “A rape victim, if he feels abandoned and isolated, _misunderstood_ , sometimes withdraws from hostile and unfriendly environments. For _self preservation_. And all the better for him, with friends like you two. He’s better off without you.” 

This harsh opinion did not, however, stop detective James Logan from pursuing the investigation. Nevertheless, all traces of Charles Xavier had vanished entirely, as if the man had completely dropped off the map. As there was no signs of struggle or anything that would suggest the professor had been taken against his will, and the rape lead led nowhere but a dead-end, the detective was eventually compelled to mark it a cold-case. 

It sat uncomfortably in his stomach, but there was nothing to be done about it. People went missing every day, escaping through the cracks in the system, vanishing completely into anonymity. 

Charles Xavier was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

There was a room in Raven’s apartment that was under lock and key, and no one ever opened. 

They hadn’t touched it in years. 

At the beginning she had hoped her brother would return, after a while away to get his head on straight, to clear his mind. Charles always strived to be calm and patient, to consider things carefully, to _listen._

But a week became a month became a season, became a year. Winter, winter, winter again. Four years passed, and not a word from Charles. The helplessness of the absence piled over her shoulders like so many broken dreams, and played cruel tricks on her. 

She heard a British accent and whirled around to find a man she’d never met. She saw blue eyes and double-checked, but they were duller, smaller, a different shade. She heard his laugh and stood from her table to look around in desperation, only to realize too late that the cadence had been different. 

The worst was when she accidentally caught his cologne in the air around her, his clean masculine scent. It never came from his room, anymore, but it was a commercial product and other men used it. She could smell it, sometimes, and it felt like a snake curling viciously around her throat and chest, crushing her lungs in. 

Those nights she stayed awake, and wondered where he was. Occasionally she sat in bed, holding his phone in her hand; the account had been cancelled, but it was still his phone. She charged it, from time to time, and went over the pictures in the memory card. It always felt like the Charles in her head was bigger, somehow, than the Charles in those pictures. 

“It’s his mind,” Erik said quietly when she confessed to that feeling. “His mind couldn’t be caught in the picture, and it was—it _is_ —vast. Bigger than the world.” 

 

“He’s out there,” he said another time, another winter, staring out the window of their living room into the soft white world outside. “I know he’s out there.” 

“Yes,” she replied flatly, looking down at the cup of tea in her hands. She didn’t drink it. She didn’t like tea. “Out there, away from us.”

It took two years for them to realize the vastness of the mistake they’d made. In the early half-light of an autumn dawn, Erik startled awake at the sound of his doorbell, and scrambled up and away from his bed, tangled in his sheets, almost running to his door. _He’s back_ , he thought, and stared when he found Sean in the hall, pale and frail-looking, great blue eyes terrified. 

“What—“ Erik asked, confused, moving to let Sean in. But the boy shook his head, shaking like a leaf. 

“It’s Hank,” he croaked, voice breaking. “Hank is—he needs— _please_ , he needs help.” 

He also needed stitches—external and internal. 

A whole new system of therapy had to be designed for him; the stress and shock had triggered his mutation, and it had evolved from curiously shaped feet to a whole-body change, similar in several respects to a leonine man. The nurses and staff at the hospital were at a loss, dismayed, scrambling to find antibiotics and painkillers that would aid in his recovery. 

The policemen that took the samples—a traumatic enough event on its own, that had Hank curled in on himself like a wretched ball of fur for days, in shame—were jerky with anger and horror whenever they didn’t have to pretend for Hank’s sake. 

James Logan made an incomprehensible reappearance, starting the investigation on Sebastian Shaw with a viciousness Raven and Erik had rarely witnessed in a detective. For all his gruff and hostile attitude toward them, Logan was heartbreakingly gentle with Hank, seemingly knowing precisely what he had to do to put the young man at ease. He made himself as small as possible considering his hulking body, spoke softly, moved slowly, sat well away and never moved to touch him. 

Alex and Sean had taken nearly permanent residence in the chairs in Hank’s room, torn between giving him the space they thought he might need and staying as close as they could in their own need to give him their support, and reassure themselves that despite his psychological trauma, he was still their friend, and he was _safe._

Alex in particular grew hostile and distrustful with the people he didn’t know when Hank was around, displaying protectiveness no one would have given him credit for before. His older brother Scott hovered, uncertain and lost, at the edges of their group, doing whatever he could to mend all of their broken hearts. 

Hank seemed to sleep better if Erik was around. He knew Erik to be very powerful, and knew he would protect him. Erik started spending his nights in the room with Sean and Alex, sometimes sleeping, sometimes working, but more often staring, unblinking, at his own hands. 

He remembered Charles had stared at his hands that winter morning, pale and wan and speechless. 

_I asked him to stop_ , he’d said. _I’m hurt._

The room was still locked. Charles’ phone was in Raven’s bed-side table. Charles himself was gone, vanished without a trace, never again to be found. 

Erik found himself on a plane to New York, and only realized once he was there that he didn’t have the slightest clue as to where to start looking. New York was immense. There hadn’t been news for two years. Charles could literally _anywhere._

 

He surprised himself by crushing all the cars in a two-mile radius as his power flared out of control with his anger; something that hadn’t happened to him since he’d met Charles over a decade ago. _Calm your mind, Erik_ , he’d said, and smiled that soft sweet Charles-smile. 

To return to Boston he rented a car, and consciously had to keep himself from wrecking it into a ball. 

Hank was hospitalized for a week; upon his release instead of going to his own apartment he moved in with Sean’s family, a huge pack of red-headed creatures of such good hearts they cleared out a room for him, changed their locks, updated their alarm system. Sean’s father, a tall gangling individual of mismatched blue and green eyes, volunteered himself to drive Hank everywhere and anywhere so he wouldn’t have to use the public transportation. 

For a while, until Hank could sleep on his own again, Erik slept in the couch in their living room, half-alert at all times as though he’d been hurt himself. 

Sometimes he found himself standing outside Charles’ room in Raven’s apartment, to which he had a key, and couldn’t understand how even across the distance Charles couldn’t feel his distress, his guilt. Distance meant nothing to Charles’ power, to the most powerful telepath to be recorded for decades, to the mutant for which the psi-scale had to be redesigned. 

_I’m sorry_ , he’d find himself thinking at night, staring at the wood grain of the closed door. _We were wrong. Come back. Please come back_

He never got a reply. In a fit of anger once, exhausted and fatigued and hurt, he unlocked the door and stormed into the room, searching for clues, for anything that might tell him where he could look for his friend. The police had left the room in perfect order when they had left two years previous, as if they hadn’t been there at all and the last one to enter had been Charles himself. His books were on his desk, his laptop open with a pencil lying forgotten on the keyboard. His notebook was open over the bed-side table, notes covering the pages in Charles chicken-scratch scrawl, as if the ideas rained upon him too fast for him to write them down. 

 

Once he was inside his anger left him drained and tired. Helpless, he sat at the edge of the bed and stared at the notebook, and the half-closed drawer. Noticing something inside the drawer, he frowned and pulled it open. It was a medication bottle; he recognized the brand: psi-suppressants. Telepathy-control medication. 

Charles had been sick as a dog when he’d tried them half a decade ago, barely capable of getting up from his bed, half-delirious and feverish for days until Erik had put his foot down and taken the drugs away, banning further experimentation. 

He took the bottle with him, and locked the room back behind himself. The bottle he kept, as a reminder, in his own beside table drawer. 

The seasons followed one another, time passing uninterrupted. Hank healed, against all expectations, and began to smile and laugh again. Erik watched his progress with a hawk’s eye, noticing the small things that would never go away; the flinches, the starts, the recoils. The way he sought out his friends when he was in an unfamiliar place, how he’d rarely leave their side alone. The way Sean’s family, attentive and careful, would make sure that Hank wasn’t touched by anyone he didn’t know. 

It didn’t take long for him to remember what Charles had looked like, right before he disappeared. Thin and pale and withdrawn, eyes dull, shoulders hunched as if he could make himself disappear. How could he not have noticed? How had Raven missed how traumatized he was? 

Why hadn’t he _listened_?

It happened on a Saturday morning, four years after Charles had left. Erik was in Raven’s kitchen, preparing coffee, when suddenly she cried out for him, voice strangled. Erik scrambled out of the kitchen, alarmed and ready for a fight, only to find her standing in the middle of the living room, staring at the television. 

Confused, he got to her side and directed his attention to the news-update he’d only been half-listening to. Something about the Avengers once again saving New York from Victor von Doom, and all the property damage therein incurred, as per usual, and Tony Stark explaining that SHIELD would see to it everyone was compensated and hey, at least New York was still standing. Well, portions of it. 

And then he saw him. 

Behind Tony Stark, to the side, not on the platform but right at its edge, dressed in a black suit, with his short brown hair neatly combed back. He was staring down at a Stark data-pad in his hands, fiddling with the touch-screen, frowning and not looking at the camera, but his face—it was impossible to mistake him. Pepper Potts was paying attention to him, thoroughly engrossed in his words and his data-pad.

Erik stared at him, speechless, watched him lift his face to look up and catch Captain America’s attention with a quiet word, watched as the Avenger turned to him immediately, solicitous, and heard Charles’ words with undivided attention. Captain America frowned as well, a little more severely than Charles, and looked at the data Charles was showing in the pad, though he seemed to struggle a little to follow the information. Finally he understood, and frowning more decisively now he turned and beckoned at someone else. 

It was clear he was trying to get Thor’s attention, but the God of Thunder was otherwise engaged in staring at the overcast sky, doubtlessly knowing a storm was coming. Black Widow was forced to slap his arm to get him to look at Captain America, and even then the Cap had to make a gesture for him to move closer, and show him the pad in Charles’ hands—always careful, Erik realized abruptly, never to touch Charles himself. 

Thor did his level best to pay attention, but he looked puzzled and curious until Charles put down the pad and explained earnestly and more carefully. Only then did Thor frown and nod, and with a word followed Charles out of sight—rather like a huge hulking shield, making sure Charles had passage without brushing up against anyone and keeping a protective arm around his slight frame without actually coming in contact. And then they were gone.

“Oh my God,” Raven collapsed back into the couch. Tony Stark was still talking. Captain America and Black Widow had their heads bent together, quietly speaking, and Hawkeye looked completely uninterested in everything. 

“Oh my God,” Raven repeated, eyes wide. “Of course. _Tony_. Charles and Tony met in college years ago. I didn’t—they didn’t speak anymore when Charles… I didn’t think he’d go to him, but _of course_.”

Yes. Of course. Tony Stark was one of the most powerful men alive; if _anyone_ could make Charles feel safe, it had to be Tony Stark. Especially if the Avengers were already in the equation back then, a covert operation not yet public knowledge. It was clear enough that Captain America knew how to treat Charles, as did Thor; they had to be _used_ to it. 

Charles had been gone four years. But four years ago, Tony Stark had most certainly not been the ideal person for a victim of abuse to go to; Stark had been a playboy himself, openly promiscuous and very gregarious, moving fluidly through social circles, at parties nearly every night. How could Charles have gone to someone like that for protection?

“We have to talk to him,” Raven whispered. 

They tried. Of course, getting across to Tony Stark was a titanic endeavor in itself, and being denied access to him was the most natural and expectable response. But that didn’t wipe their dismay at the many roadblocks. They tried to communicate with higher ranking people in Stark Industries, even going so far as to use Lehnsherr Engineering as a cover to get inside their many shields, but they were baffled to find their offers politely but firmly declined. 

Eventually they were obliged to resort to Moira once again, and through her contacts, managed to acquire the personal cell-phone number of one Pepper Potts, Tony Stark’s personal assistant and acting-CEO of Stark Industries. 

Thinking he’d finally managed to get through, Erik immediately called her, only to be thoroughly disappointed once again. 

“I don’t know any Charles Xavier,” Potts said, politely dismissive. “I think you’re confused, Mr. Lehnsherr. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but there’s no such employee in Stark Industries.” 

Erik thought it unlikely that Potts remembered the names of every single Stark employee, enough to distinguish whether a single man worked in the vast company or not, and said so, rather forcefully. 

“But you insist Mr. Xavier was with us at the press conference,” Potts said reasonably, her tone of voice calm and cool. “ _That_ I would remember.”

“He was there,” Erik ground out, gritting his teeth. “I saw him, he was talking directly to you, Ms. Potts. You know him; short, brown hair, blue eyes, British accent. You were _talking_ to him.” 

“I’m sorry you’re confused,” Potts said, sounding genuinely regretful. Oh, she was good. “I hope you find your friend. Good luck, Mr. Lehnsherr. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have duties to take care of.”

She hung up, and never picked up again. 

Erik and Raven were baffled and dismayed to find all other avenues of contact blocked to them henceforth, as if they had been deliberately blacklisted—and so they suspected they indeed _had_. 

Doggedly bent on finding Charles and talking to him, getting him back, Raven uprooted herself and moved to New York, Erik following closely behind. Once there they began to hound Stark Industries physically, knowing if Stark showed up he’d not bother denying them like Potts had; if anything, Stark would most likely mock them and have them arrested, but if he did, Charles would most definitely hear about it. 

Unless they were shielding him from them, keeping him safe as much as turning them away. Erik couldn’t help but remember the protective way Thor had moved around Charles, opening a way for him with a pointed glance of his blue eyes and a motion of his huge hands; the way Captain America had looked attentively over his shoulder as Charles moved away, making sure there was no problem. 

Erik knew he recognized the behavior from the way the Cassidy family acted around Hank. 

But that plan didn’t prove useful either; they did come upon Tony Stark, but he was on his own, and his bodyguards kept them away, much too far away to cause any real incident and get any sort of press attention. Stark even had the gall to look at them, stare directly _at them_ , and turn away without so much as a word, dismissive. 

“We can’t break into the Avenger Tower,” Erik said one morning, staring furiously out the window of their small flat. “But Stark’s private house—we can do _that_. He has to have some information there; maybe Charles is even staying with him, or works there.”

The security protocols at the private Stark residence had to be nothing less than impressive, but they were running out of options and patience. Stark and the Avengers had made some other public appearances, but Charles had been nowhere in sight. Erik and Raven were certain they were keeping him behind closed doors, well out of their access. In fact, Erik was certain that in their last conference as a group, Black Widow and Hawkeye had been keeping an alert eye out in the audience, as if looking for someone in particular, for a distinctive face. 

If that was how the Avengers wanted to play it—well then, that was how they would play it as well. 

In the end they chose Black Widow; Raven didn’t feel confident in impersonating boy-scout Captain America, Thor or Bruce Banner, and it seemed impossible to either of them for her to try to copy the intermittent insanity of Tony Stark or Hawkeye, one completely unpredictable and the other half around the bend on madness. 

So Black Widow it was. Erik would make a diversion, and Raven would slip into the house while the Avengers were preoccupied with Erik, trying to figure out why some anonymous mutant would want to mess with them. Erik had little doubt as to the fact that he’d be quickly taken down, so time was of the essence. Raven had to get in, get the info and get out. So long as Raven at least managed to contact Charles, then it would be worth it and besides, once Raven and Charles talked things out, Charles would probably talk Tony into setting Erik free. 

“Sounds like a plan,” Raven said firmly, at last.

“Yes,” Erik answered grimly. “So let’s put it in motion.” 

The plan was a good enough one, if overly simple. What they unfortunately didn’t count on was that the Avengers weren’t actually in the Avenger Tower at all times. 

As they had imagined Erik was stopped, almost immediately, by Captain America and Hawkeye—he tried to stop the last one’s arrows, but the archer grinned at his face and said:

“Carbon fiber, dipshit.”

What they hadn’t imagined was that Raven would run up against Thor, Hulk and the real Black Widow in Tony’s house, and that she’d be caught in less than five minutes by a slightly amused but mostly irritated Russian woman. 

“Tony Stark had the right of it,” Thor said, disapproving, as he eyed Raven down. 

“He’s my brother!” Raven growled, struggling against the zip ties that bound her wrists. “You can’t keep me away from him!”

“Of course we can,” Black Widow said, blinking at her. “Look at how easy it was.” 

“I want to see him!”

“Who is her brother?” Thor asked, bewildered. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Widow said. “Clearly he doesn’t want to see her, or Tony wouldn’t have gone out of his way to avoid it.” 

“But if she is their blood,” Thor said doubtfully. “Surely she has a right, does she not?” 

“Yes!” Raven growled. 

“ _No_ ,” a voice crackled from the house’s speakers. “,i>No she doesn’t, screw that shit. Thor, please don’t go around giving familial advice, we all know what you’re like with your brother.” 

Thor had the sense to look abashed. 

“What do we do with her, Iron Man?” Widow flipped a long curl of auburn hair away from her face. 

“ _Cap’s got her minion pinned_ ,” Stark said through the speakers. “ _You know what, to hell with polite indifference, not my style. Haul her over to the Tower. Raven, you wanna talk, we’ll talk._ ”

The speakers were silent, and Widow bent over to drag Raven up to her feet by the arm. For a moment there was a bit of silence, and then suddenly, as if he’d reconsidered, Tony came back. 

“ _Oh hey Thor, buddy, you know how Charles has these deep trust issues and low self-esteem problems? You wanted to know the cause for that, right? You’re looking at her._ ”   
The God of Thunder’s eyes snapped to her, startling cornflower-blue, intense and burning with sudden anger. His jaw worked, and his shoulders grew stiff and tense. He shifted his grip in the shaft of Mjolnir, knuckles growing white and bloodless. 

“I see,” he said ominously.


	4. Chapter 4

They were put in cuffs and mutation suppression bracelets and left on a wide living room in the Avengers Tower. The doors and windows were locked, and without Erik’s powers they were as good as walls. 

It seemed like a long time had passed when the door finally opened, but Raven had been keeping an eye on the wall clock and knew only one hour had gone by. The Avengers filed in, lead by Captain America, although now that he was out of costume, Raven figured he was currently Steve Rogers. The only one missing was Bruce Banner, and Raven was relieved. The last thing they needed was for him to Hulk out in the middle of the conversation. Pepper Potts closed the door behind her and leaned against it, quiet and withdrawn. 

“I want to see my brother,” Raven started almost immediately. 

“And I want world peace, but well,” Tony Stark replied, grinning. Raven could see he was absolutely furious, though it only showed in his clear blue eyes. 

“I have a right to—“

“The truth is that you don’t,” Widow interrupted suddenly, and went to sit on the couch, crossing her ridiculously long legs. “Over three years ago, when he entered the employment of the Avengers and Stark Industries, Charles made us responsible for his personal safety. Physical _and_ psychological.” 

“You are no good for him,” Thor said firmly from his place by the great window, tense and angry. 

“And who exactly are you to decide that?” Erik demanded, trying to keep calm. 

“I’m the one that did fucking listen,” Tony snarled, sitting up straight in his chair. Rogers’ hand shot out and grabbed his shoulder, placating. The Captain sighed and shook his head slowly. 

“Tony, I know you’re protective of Charles, and I understand, but you have to calm down too. She’s his sister. She does have a right to talk to him, at least.” 

“She doesn’t,” Tony insisted stubbornly, glaring at his teammate. 

“Tony,” Rogers pressed his hands to the table, patient. “I know Charles is delicate, but this is his _family_. And she hasn’t seen him in four years, Tony. I’m sure she’s been very worried, and I think it would be good for Charles to see her and try to mend their relationship.” 

Tony Stark stared at him, speechless and pale, for a second; then his face flushed with emotion, eyes hard and bright.

“You wanna know why I’m so fucking protective of Charles, Steve? You wanna know why he keeps flinching when someone taller, like you or Thor, come closer? Should I tell you _exactly_ the reason he can’t have any kind of intimate relationship with anyone anymore, especially not men, especially not men with blue eyes? Or can you all figure it out on your own?”

There was a long pause. Steve Rogers grew pale as a sheet, eyes widening. Thor’s shoulders were hunched. Hawkeye, a little slower on the uptake, turned to Natasha for confirmation, and grit his teeth tightly when she nodded. 

“When?” Steve managed, swallowing. 

“Four years ago,” Tony ground out. “About a month before he came live with me. And why did he come live with me?”

He whirled around to glare murderously at Raven, hands fisted. 

“It happened in the afternoon,” he began, eyes like chips of ice. “He later realized he had been in deep shock, but instead of going to a hospital or the police, he went home. He couldn’t sleep. He realized he was hurt pretty bad. He got up in the morning and tried— _tried_ to tell his sister and his best friend that he’d been raped. His sister, and his _best friend_ —and what did they say?” 

The silence stretched. Erik closed his eyes. 

“They told him,” Tony continued, savagely. “that he’d misunderstood. That they were sorry he was sore, but there was no reason to say he’d been assaulted. Not _him_ , because Charles used to go around if you know what I mean, and obviously someone promiscuous can’t be raped—that’s just another round, isn’t it? Nothing to complain about. If he didn’t like it, they said, just don’t go back to him, isn’t that right, _Lehnsherr_?” 

Erik let his head rest on his hands. 

“And then,” Tony growled. “Because that wasn’t enough, don’t you know, when Charles tried to talk it out with them again, they told him to stop with that already, get over it and move on, didn’t you, Raven? You’re such a supportive sister, aren’t you? Good thing he had a _family to go to!_ ”

He ended in a roar, so enraged he started pacing, unable to stay still. 

“Charles had always told me how much he loved his precious baby sister, and how _close_ they were,” Tony kept going, moving like an angry lion in a very small cage. Steve Rogers stared at him, speechless and pale, visibly crushed. “So imagine, just _imagine_ , my surprise, when he showed up at my doorstep, looking like a skeleton, _begging_ me to help him. He was sure, he was _certain_ , that I was gonna turn him down too, and call him a slut like _his sister did_ , but he didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

He took a deep breath in, stalked over to the bar and poured himself a generous measure of whiskey. Only after taking a long swallow of it did he manage to pace back to the table and drop the glass there, where it rattled against the wood. 

Rogers flinched. 

“He was on suppressant drugs, so he couldn’t read my mind. It took me hours to make him understand I’d help him, fuck, I’d go after the piece of shit myself, but no, Charles didn’t want that—he just wanted me to keep him safe for a while, until he could just—just pick himself up, he said.”

Stark swallowed, pushing his hand through his hair restlessly, and here he seemed unable to continue talking, choked. 

“I’ve seen the medical reports,” Potts said quietly, staring at Raven. “He was underweight; he suffered from a severe PTSD and nervous anorexia and bulimia, insomnia, anxiety and paranoia, extreme confusion and occasional black-outs. He’d dropped well over fifteen kilograms in a month, losing weight he couldn’t spare. We immediately got him on medical treatment, but…”

“But let’s admit it,” Tony cut in, bitter. “I wasn’t exactly the best individual to go to at that point, not for someone who’d been assaulted and then brutally disregarded by the people he loved. I did get him treatment, but he was pretty down the line at that point and didn’t respond well or quickly.”

“He was hospitalized two months after he came to Tony, for being severe underweight and suffering from fatigue, and he stayed in the clinic for six months under treatment.”

Rogers made a breathy little gasp and bent his head to his hand, covering his eyes. Widow got to her feet and moved slowly to Thor’s side, where her support was harshly refused as the Asgardian twitched away, shaking his head sharply. Hawkeye was still attempting to absorb all of that information and if his struck expression was any indication it was not coming along easily at all.

“After which,” Tony said, more steadily now as he downed the last of his whiskey. “On top of everything else, Charles had to deal with _me_ , after I was kidnapped. Like he didn’t have enough on his fucking plate. But hey, he didn’t complain, he just sat with me when I had nightmares and was there for me when I needed him like I didn’t know how to be there for him when he needed me. Well, you know Charles—oh no wait, you don’t fucking know him _at all_.” 

He gripped the glass in his fingers, so tightly his knuckles turned white, his jaw working. Watching him, Pepper started forward, but too late; Tony shifted abruptly and hefted the glass against the wall, where it shattered in thousands of crystal shards. 

Startled, Steve scrambled to his feet and caught Tony’s wrist, but there was nothing left in him; he looked tired and angry, wretched but too proud to show it. 

“So don’t come to me,” he said slowly, staring at Raven like she was the most disgusting thing he could contemplate. “and tell me that you have a right to talk to him. Don’t you come to me and tell me he’s your _brother_.” 

He shrugged off Steve’s hand, and with jerky, angered movements he fixed his suit jacket and shirt-cuffs, making himself presentable. 

“I have somewhere I need to be, and Charles is coming with me. He’s coming with _me_ , because I give a crap about him, unlike you two pieces of shit. You two get to stay the fuck away from him, and maybe if life is fair, drop off the face of the world and die.”

Very calm, in a very measured and controlled way, he moved to the door and walked out. He did not slam the door. He did not storm out of the room. He was too proud for such dramatics—the glass had been bad enough. He was better than that, damnit, he was a fucking grown-up. 

Thor did storm out of the room—in fact he _tornadoed_ out of it, face thunderous, like he was going to go traveling the dimensions until he was able to find an isolated enough world to destroy, to smash to smithereens, something to vent the anger and rage eating him up inside. Hawkeye blinked, and with some apprehension followed him, possibly to make sure he didn’t bring the building down around them. It was a fine day when Hawkeye had to do damage control, but Pepper Potts, Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanov were rooted to their spots, frozen. 

Finally Widow moved to Steve, sighing. 

“I figured you knew,” she said, softly. 

Steve rubbed a hand over his face, “I knew something was wrong. I didn’t know what precisely. I sort of wish I didn’t, but at the same time I guess it’s good I do. I can’t think of all the times I was probably way too big to be around him.” 

“He knows you wouldn’t hurt him,” Pepper offered, eyeing Raven’s shaking form with pity. “He knows Tony wouldn’t let anyone who would hurt him anywhere within a five-mile radius. And then there’s Thor,” she added, smiling slightly. “You know how Thor gets with Charles.” 

“I still—“ Raven had to stop to swallow and wipe at her face angrily. “I still want to talk to him. I don’t—Tony’s right, I hurt him. But I—he’s my brother, and I love him, and I miss him. And I—I want to try.”

“We owe it to him,” Erik murmured, dragging his head up to stare Steve right in the eye. “To look him in the eye and apologize. He has a right to that.” 

Steve hesitated. Erik could see he was torn, on the one hand eager to keep Charles safe, and on the other unable to deny the fact that the apology was something Charles probably needed. And that perhaps, just as Thor could forgive and love his brother after everything he had put them through, perhaps similarly Charles could forgive and love his sister also. Steve had a kind heart; he was probably desperate to do whatever was right for _Charles_ , regardless of his or Tony’s personal opinions. 

“Thor isn’t going to let them anywhere close to him,” Pepper warned, seeing Steve’s indecision. 

“Thor puts up with his brother trying to murder us every other week,” Steve said, arching his brows. “I think if anyone can understand this, it’s him. Still—the truth is that it’s Charles’ decision, in the end.”

He straightened, and squared his shoulders like the soldier he was. He looked Raven right in the eyes, his crystal-blue gaze earnest and direct. 

“I’ll tell him you came looking for him and you’d like to talk to him. That’s all I’m willing to promise. But I want you to promise, in turn, that if his answer is no, you’ll leave him alone. He’s okay here with us; we keep him safe and he has work, and he’s getting better.” 

“Work,” Erik echoed dully. “What does he do here?”

“A bit of everything,” Steve said. He passed a hand through his hair, combing it back into order, and with a nod to the both of them left the room, closely followed by Black Widow; by the look in her face she was fit to argue whether they should tell Charles anything at all, but Steve seemed to have made his decision. 

There was a thunderstorm that night, powerful enough to rattle the windows in the containment cells they were placed in. It was probably not a happenstance of chance. The following day it rained nearly constantly, and at night the thunderstorm resumed, so vicious that Erik imagined if he hadn’t been wearing the bracelets, he could have felt the magnetism of the thunder crawling along his skin, singing in his veins; a chant of blood and power. 

The second day dawned grey and sullen, with occasional drizzles of rain spitting down the sides of the Avenger’s Tower. There were no thunders or lightning, but the absence of the anger made the wretchedness of the weather all the more acute. Thor had a good heart somewhere inside that huge chest, and it looked like he was off somewhere pouting and sulking—which was, distressingly, a very easy thing to imagine. It was probably his boyish face; it made it easy to imagine him pouting.

“I’m losing my mind,” Erik announced following that thought, staring out the window at the rivulets of falling rain. 

Raven did not look up from where she was curled up on the couch, hugging her knees to her body.

“I think we lost our minds a while back, sorry to say.”

 _Just about four years ago_ , Erik thought grimly. 

“Maybe he can’t forgive us,” Raven said in a thin, broken voice. 

Erik, leaning against the window with his arms crossed, looked at her over his shoulder. 

“It’s Charles,” he said, not unkindly, and then incongruously bitter, added: “He’s always forgiven us for hurting him, hasn’t he?”

But evening came and went and still they were left to their own devises, free to roam the small living room and their cells but offered no other attention. The SHIELD soldiers assigned to keep an eye on them did so with rather a baffling absence of interest, although this did not diminish their attention. Apathetic was perhaps the most fitting word. 

In the early morning of the third day, it finally stopped raining, though the sky continued to be overcast and grey. Erik and Raven refused to take it as a sign; Thor’s moods were most likely completely unrelated to anything but Thor and possibly his sociopathic brother, whom everyone knew to have mood swings bigger than entire universes. 

So they were rather surprised when Steve Rogers showed up at the door of the small living room and nodded at them. Erik and Raven scrambled to follow him; the Captain looked tired and sad, like he’d not been getting a lot of sleep since they had last seen him, and Erik wondered what it was like, to have to talk down Iron Man and Thor from their respective thorny edges. He thought maybe as a child, Steve Rogers might have been of a sweet disposition; he felt rather sorry the man was forced to deal with recalcitrant Tony Stark on a daily basis. 

The Captain paused with his hand at the door, and turned to give them a stern look. 

“I’m letting this happen because Charles wants this,” he started heavily. “I don’t think I’m doing you any favors. I don’t know what Charles was like four years ago, but I think a lot of things have changed. I need to issue a few warnings before I let you in,” he sighed, as if these were terms that had been previously agreed upon. Erik wondered just _how_ recalcitrant Tony and Thor had been. 

“Charles doesn’t like to be touched,” he started, blue eyes troubled. “He’s a very quiet person. He’s still using telepathy-controlling drugs though he’s slowly easing out of it; he thinks you two know how to shield so I need to ask you to do so to the best of your abilities. It’ll probably look to you like Thor hovers around him; that impression’s correct, as Thor’s the one who usually shields him if danger pops up. Tony’s in there and he’s angry enough to chew metal and spit nails, so it’s in your best interests not to engage him directly.”

Here he paused, hesitating, but forced himself to push through. He did look slightly put-upon as he talked. 

“Tony asked me to tell you that Charles works directly under Stark Industries, and by extension SHIELD; Thor requested I make it clear he’s a son of Asgard; and Natasha insisted I tell you Russia is a very harsh place to be imprisoned in. I can’t make that threat any clearer.”

It really wasn’t possible. 

“I hope you don’t think that will dissuade us,” Erik said evenly. 

Captain America leveled him with a look. 

“I certainly expect it won’t, not after I’ve put myself forward in your name against every single person in this team and agent Coulson, and have had circular conversations with Tony and Thor for hours about how this would be good for Charles. Don’t make me a liar. I’ve been your ally so far, but you won’t like me on the other side of the court; I can promise you that.” 

Erik and Raven nodded. 

“Thank you; you didn’t have to,” Raven said quietly. 

“I’m not doing you any favors,” Steve insisted, and twisted the doorknob to open the door and precede them into a large, comfortable living room with an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. The room was dominated by a large dark-blue tasteful couch, on which Tony Stark sat sullen and furious, helping himself to what may or may not have been his first glass of scotch. His eyes snapped up when they came in, gaze visibly hostile. 

But Tony didn’t really matter, angry as he was. What mattered was Charles, standing by the great windows. He was standing tall and proud, dark hair combed back in a short, strangely severe style, electric-blue eyes calm and impassive. His hands were behind his back so his shoulders were straight and squared, broader than either of them remembered—it was clear Charles had undergone a strict training regimen that had changed the shape of his body, though his naturally lean form was still evident. 

He was wearing a simple but elegant dark grey three-piece suit; exquisitely tailored, but designed, it seemed, to repel attention. 

He was much thinner than the last time they had seen him healthy;, and appeared to be little more than muscle, bones and those amazing eyes. 

They regarded each other across the room, silent. 

“You saw him,” Tony snarled. “Satisfied? You can leave now.” 

Charles’ remarkable eyes slid away from them to his friend, and after ducking his head slightly, the telepath moved fluidly to the couch. 

“Would you care for some tea?” he asked, delicately polite, gesturing for them to take a seat in the smaller couch in front of Tony and Steve. He himself took a seat at Tony’s other side, and seemed to think nothing of it as Thor set himself to hovering protectively at his right shoulder, like a great thundering shadow at his back. 

Erik and Raven took the offer, speechless and at a loss, and sat themselves down in front of them. Charles set himself to pouring tea for everyone. Very naturally, he reached to the side and plucked the almost empty glass from Tony’s fingers, unflinching when the man grumbled hostilely. He replaced the glass with a cup and saucer. 

“Thank you, Charles,” Steve said politely, taking his own cup of tea with more grace. Charles didn’t attempt to hand them theirs; he set the tea upon the table in front of them and, having poured his own, sat back to look at them, cool and composed. Thor didn’t get a cup, and he didn’t ask for one. Perhaps it was a previous understanding. 

“You wished to speak with me,” Charles encouraged at length, cool but civil. 

Erik struggled to swallow, completely at sea. This was most certainly not the Charles they had known and loved; this cold, self-possessed, well-bred creature was entirely alien, and thought they had always known Charles to have a perfect gentleman inside him somewhere, to see him thus displayed to their detriment, his education like a shield against them, was discomfiting to say the least. 

“So speak,” Thor said low, ominously. 

“Please do feel free,” Charles said softly. “I would not be here if I were not willing to listen,” he smiled, strangely, a small sad smile. “It used to be we could say anything to each other, did it not?”

Tony choked. Steve set down his cup, rattling on its saucer, and took a deep breath. 

“Charles,” Raven said suddenly, voice breaking. “Charles, god—I’m so—I’m so sorry, Charles—“

“We were wrong,” Erik managed, voice strangled. “ _I_ was wrong. The things I said—“

There was a long silence. 

“It won’t mean anything,” Erik continued. “I know it won’t, but—he’s in jail.”

“He had to brutalize someone else for you to fucking believe it,” Tony growled, vibrating with barely suppressed anger. 

Charles’ eyes flicked briefly to Tony and returned steadily to Erik. He didn’t know who this person was, but it was not Charles Xavier. 

“How is Hank?” the stranger with Charles’ face asked. 

“He is… getting better,” Raven struggled. “Sean’s family’s helping him a lot, and Alex.”

Unsaid was the fact that Erik and Raven should have done the same for Charles. The Cassidys weren’t even Hank’s _family_. It was plain that Tony was thinking something along those lines. Impossible to guess what was going through Thor’s mind; the man could run to the aid of his injured brother after the psychopath had attempted repeatedly to _kill him_ , so what he thought of a sister that would turn her wounded brother away was best left unvoiced. 

Charles was silent for a while, looking at them, eyes alternating between their faces. 

Finally he leaned forward and put his tea cup on the table, and sat gracefully back against the couch. Raven noticed that though he was sitting close, his shoulder did not brush Tony’s. 

“I want you to know I forgive you,” he said quietly, seriously. Erik closed his eyes. “I’ve forgiven you a hundred times, and many days I wake in the mornings and forgive you again. This is my choice, a choice I make repeatedly, and that is my own, independent of fact or emotion. I’ve forgiven you because I needed to forgive you. Quite against my loved ones’ will,” he added with a slight smile, glancing at Tony, who grumbled. 

“I have not,” Thor said gravely. “Nor will I. What resentment Charles had let go I carry in my breast.”

“Thank you, darling,” Charles said wryly, giving him a brief smile. Then he turned back to Raven and Erik. 

“Yes. Yes, you were wrong. I would go as far to say you were cruel. But it was born out of insensibility, not lack of love, and for that I cannot resent you. I believe you loved me then, and I believe you love me still—it pains me to say that is a feeling I no longer harbor for you.” 

Raven sobbed. Erik, more used to dealing with heartbreak and rejection, nodded mechanically. 

“I’m sorry to cause you pain after you’ve come so far to find me,” Charles said, politely unapologetic for his lack of feeling. “Erik, you told me once that the flipside of love is not hate but indifference; I regret I’ve learned your lesson.” 

Erik swallowed. 

“I wish I could give you hope that this will change, but at this stage I cannot assure it. I find most of the time it’s easier for me to look forward, rather than backwards, and you are unfortunately a part of a past I am reluctant to revisit.” 

“Nor are you required to,” Thor said steadfastly. “You are not required to do anything you do not desire. I will stand by that.” 

“Thor, no one’s forcing anyone,” Steve said mildly, looking slightly concerned. “Charles knows his choices. It’s okay.” 

He paused, and looked at Charles steadily. 

“But for the record: obviously. You’ve got my shield.” 

Charles smiled, a wide, bright, genuine smile that illuminated his face—he almost looked like the old Charles, _almost_ , except for the cold shrewd edge in his eyes, which even his fondness for the man could not entirely erase.

“I am well aware, Mr. Rogers, but I thank you for the sentiment. Thor, please rest easy in your knowledge that if anything should threaten me, you will be quite the first to know.”

The God of Thunder looked tolerably settled at that, even if he did still mulishly hover behind Charles as if he thought Erik might at any point seek to strike him. The very thought turned the mutant’s stomach. 

Charles looked at Tony, but no reassurances of defense and protection came from Iron Man. The billionaire was actually obstinately staring at the opposite wall, surly and silent, quite unlike himself. But Charles didn’t insist; nor was it necessary in any case. Tony had already made it amply clear that he would strip the hide off everyone who attempted to lay a finger on Charles. 

The addition of Captain America’s support and Thor’s temper to the equation, however, had a strange effect. Raven swallowed. 

“So you’re safe here,” she said evenly, wiping at her tears. “You’re with friends. And you’re—alright?”

Charles smiled kindly. 

“I am tolerably well and slowly improving, Raven. You needn’t worry for me any longer.”

Erik nodded, and finally stood. 

“Then—then we’ll leave you in peace,” he said quietly. Raven got uncertainly to her feet, as if she was expecting Charles to stop her, to call out for her to stay a little longer by his side. But Charles stood, nodding in farewell. 

“It was good to see you regardless,” he said, sliding his hands into his pockets casually, nowhere near offering any signs of affection. “I am gratified you are doing well, yourselves.”

Yet he did not ask after their well-being, or make any further inquiries which might encourage them to linger. Erik nodded again, and touching Raven’s shoulder he moved towards the door. She paused the doorway, though, looking back at her brother tentatively. 

“Charles, you—you know where to find me.”

The creature with Charles’ face smiled gently, “I have always known where to find you, Raven.”

They left, and in their wake the room was eerily silent. 

Tony stirred from his obstinate silence, frowning up at his friend with concern. “You alright?”

Charles looked down at him, thoughtful. He didn’t smile; there was no need to fake smiles in this company. 

“I hardly know, Tony. Ask me again tomorrow.”

“You get sulky when I ask you too much,” Tony protested. 

Charles broke into a smile, “That is true. Then ask me the day after tomorrow, and I promise I won’t sulk. You behaved yourself like a proper terror, I must point out. Will you need a scotch to send you to bed?”

Tony’s eyes widened in adoration, “You’re the best butler, Jarvis, the _best_.”

“Where did that even come from?” Steve asked, relaxing back against the couch. 

“It’s a long stupid story no one wants to hear, seriously, and besides there’s no time, you know what, abort the scotch, I’m sleepy—“

“I also am curious,” Thor admitted. 

“Tony was very drunk,” Charles said calmly. “Very _very_ drunk. And when I told him my name was Charles Francis Xavier he could not retain it, though he did think Francis sounded funny. In trying to recall my name he thought I’d said Jarvis instead of Francis, and being the dick he can often, not to mention most of the time, be, he decided the name suited me.”

“That sounds like Tony,” Steve grinned. 

“Indeed,” Charles smiled, and gave Tony his refilled glass. He slipped his hands inside his pockets again, and half-turned to look at the sun sinking in the New York skyline through the great windows, infused with a curious sense of peace. Thor crept closer, though he still kept his usual respectful distance, cornflower-blue eyes troubled. He seemed to stumble over his words a bit, but eventually managed to get out that Charles must not fear that anyone would hurt him, for he’d raise Asgard against their enemies if needed be, to protect him. 

“Oh, Thor,” Charles smiled gently at him. “Do you remember, what you said to me, that first time we met so many years ago? I flinched away from you and you told me I ought not to fear you, and indeed ought not to fear anything at all—for fear, you said, is the destroyer of minds.”

Very deliberately, Charles reached out and laid his hand softly on Thor’s forearm. His telepathy spread, like a warm blanket, like a curious tentative spider, over their minds, welcome and pleasant. 

“I’ve no fear, my dear, none at all,” he said tenderly, and tilting his head looked at Tony in the eyes. “None whatsoever.”


End file.
